Firethorn (46 page)

“It's generous,” Divine Tambac said. “It's handsome.”

“But Divine Hamus put his hand on Galan's arm and looked up at him, his round face solemn. He said, “No, it's not enough. You must give her children too. No woman should be without children. If you're not fortunate enough to plant one before you part, then give her hope of it when you return.”

“Consort Vulpeja kept her face hidden under the blanket. She was so still, listening for his answer, it seemed she'd stopped breathing. She couldn't see, as I could, the answer already there on his face.

“No,” Galan said. “She'll get no bastards from me to trouble my household. I gave her honor back. That will have to content her.”

“
No bastards to trouble my household.
I flinched to hear him refuse her so bluntly, and then to see her fall across the cot wailing. It didn't ease me that he denied her bed and bastards, for thinking that if the childbane should fail and I should come by one of his bastards myself, it would come unwelcome. As for Divine Hamus, he was displeased, but forbore to argue. As they say, a man can be commanded to his duty, but his prick answers to no one.

I turned away just as Galan said again, this time with more entreaty than anger, “I gave her honor back.”

By the time the Auspices took the last augury outside the tent, the Sun had already quartered the sky. We came to watch, all except Consort Vulpeja, who wept in her bed, and Sunup, who stayed to tend her. Crux Sun was warm on our faces though the air was cold. We'd not seen her so unveiled for many a day and our shadows were black at our feet. The sight of her lifted my spirits; surely Crux's smile was a good omen to put against all these warnings.

Divine Tambac opened the cages and let the two remaining birds fly free, that they might seek out any threats to Galan from outside his household. The birds flew off south—of—west across the Heavens, brimful with blue. The wind had changed since the night before; now it blew from the mountains instead of the Hardscrabble and pushed the birds seaward with a strong hand. Far out over the water, the dove could be seen trying to beat her way back, slipping sideways.

On a clear night any fool can point to the sky, to any one of the twelve directions, and read which god rules it at a given hour, for the godsigns are there writ large in the stars, moving in their slow circle dance. But Divine Tambac, Auspex of the Heavens, knew the stars in his bones. No clouds could hide them from him, nor could the bright Sun of day. He knew where they were at every moment, in every season.

Galan said to him, with a wry smile, “I daresay you'll tell me to expect more trouble from Ardor. I don't need birds to warn me of that.”

Divine Tambac kept his hand over his brow, shadowing his eyes. His eyesight must be sharp, for he watched long after the two birds had vanished from my sight. Then he turned his gaze on Galan. His eyes were bright and the skin around them was scored with crow's—feet from years of squinting at the Heavens. He said, “A man is a fool who guards only one gate of his keep. Trouble can come by any road.”

Galan nodded, his smile gone.

The priest said, “Sacrifice a cock to Rift tonight, for Rift follows close on Ardor's heels. You may find favor there.”

Then Divine Hamus put his hand on Galan's shoulder and said, “I didn't wish to speak of this in her presence, but I fear your concubine is in grave danger.”

“But she's getting well,” Galan said. “She's gained flesh and strength since she came to me. It's only her temper that worries me, how she cries and laughs and rails without restraint.”

Divine Hamus shook his head and told Galan that the omen of the dove's heart had been plain, and plainer still Consort Vulpeja's despair. “It would be best if you yourself would give her some hope—but since you refuse, we must try another cure for her melancholy. If you can afford it, I'll send for the Initiates of Carnal. I've heard there are some here at the Marchfield. They'll know what to do.” He had lowered his voice. We overheard him nevertheless, Spiller and Noggin and I. We were sitting on our heels near the corner of the tent, catching the warmth of the Sun hitting the canvas wall.

Galan asked what it would cost, and when he heard the answer exclaimed that by the time Consort Vulpeja was settled at home, he'd be stripped to his hose and have to run about half naked.

Divine Hamus said, “Find the money, or all you've spent on her till now will be ashes on the wind—she'll come to her pyre before ever she reaches your keep. If I go to the Initiates today with payment, they should be able to start the rites tomorrow.

Galan stared bleakly at the priest and I thought he'd refuse, but he went into the tent and brought out his jewelry: his great jade pendant of a gyrfalcon stooping for prey, a cap sewn with pearls, his armbands and bracelets, the small gold knives he wore on his sleeves when he went to dine—all these he gave to the Auspices. They said it might do.

Spiller watched with his mouth hanging open, and when the priests had gone and Galan stood before the doorway frowning at their backs, he elbowed me in the ribs and hissed in my ear, “The Initiates of Carnal! They'll teach her such tricks as will have his prick in harness and her with the whip and reins. You'd better look sharp!” Noggin whinnied so loudly at this that Galan turned our way.

I'd heard much of the Initiates from Mai and the whores. Enough to cause me disquiet. Their jests about the cult were bawdy and tinged with an envy that came near to awe. Whores worshiped Carnal, after all, in the avatar of Desire; they paid taxes to the temple and kept her shrine in their tents for protection; they did her work. The cheapest two—copper drab kept an idol of naked, fat Desire, even if it was just an amulet of unglazed clay to string around her neck. And Mai served Carnal too, in her fashion; she once told me she'd dedicated herself to furthering the aims of Desire after the god gave her Sire Torosus.

The Initiates kept the god closer still. Desire was rumored to possess them during their rites and leave them with certain gifts. They were called upon to heal the various afflictions to which dames and maidens are prone, such as barrenness, nagging, grief, sulking, disobedience, jealousy, pining for love, cuckolding or refusing their husbands—no need to go on, the list is endless. Each woman they cured became an Initiate in turn.

Mai claimed that the Initiates were more apt to work their cures on discontented men than the wives and concubines those men sent to them. The men never guessed, being well satisfied when their women came home sweet and docile; before long they were docile too, led about by their dangle. So the jest went, anyway.

In truth, the mysteries of the cult were a well—kept secret, privy only to a few women of the Blood. Mai and the whores knew no more of them than any other outsiders. But, as often happens, the less known, the more said.

So I wondered: would the Initiates undertake to cure Consort Vulpeja or Galan?

Though the morning was half gone when the priests left, there was still unwonted bustle about our camp. The Crux and his men had gone off to the tourney field, but he'd left orders that Sire Alcoba and Sire Fanfarron should move their tents, each taking the other's place on the opposite side of the compound. He didn't think it wise for Sire Alcoba to dwell next to Galan any longer.

Sire Fanfarron's drudges set up his pavilion next to ours. It was painted on the front with dancing cranes, the crane being the emblem of his house, but the sides and back were a dingy green. Such was the man too I'd heard: all front and bluster and nothing much behind.

Galan watched in silence, then turned and went into his tent again. When he'd finished arming he tucked his helmet under his arm and went to see Consort Vulpeja. She was still weeping behind her curtain. One couldn't help but hear.

He murmured something and she grew quiet, but when he came from her chamber, she began to sob again. He looked at me and grimaced. “Have I been so cruel to her, do you think?”

I opened my mouth and a croak hopped out.

He caught me up in an embrace that pressed me hard between rivets and scales and an arm like iron. “Never mind, never mind.” He lifted my chin. “The swelling will go down by tomorrow and no doubt then you shall fill up my ears as usual. Today, lie abed for once and let Sunup tend to you.” He smiled and gave me a kiss. The smile was worried and the kiss as hard as the embrace.

For a moment I didn't fear the Initiates or the Crux or anyone. I was proud to be Galan's folly. He'd faced the dogs for me, and no one, not even his uncle, could have been more amazed at it than I was.

If I was his folly, he was mine.
He was mine.
I took his lower lip between my teeth, and when he drew back his smile had changed. Desire came at my summons, avid and fierce, and she seized both of us.

But Galan only laughed. He called for his men and set off for the training fields, and left Desire to fatten on anticipation.

Then the camp was quiet, save for the drudges about their chores. Noggin sat cross—legged on his pallet, mending Sire Galan's second set of under—armor and breathing loudly through his mouth; he snored even when he was awake. I did lie abed but soon rose again. I was restless and couldn't bear hearing Consort Vulpeja cry. I fixed broth and put soothe—me in it to make her sleep, but she dashed the bowl from my hands and shrieked at me. I drank the rest of the soothe—me myself, for I was in need of it, and at last I slept in the drowsy afternoon.

umormongers pay snitches for tidbits of gossip. Most snitches are drudges—and why shouldn't they snatch a few coins where they find them, since their masters are so drudges are everywhere and often go unseen. So it's likely someone in our camp earned a few copperheads by telling a rumormonger that it was Sire Galan's armiger, Sire Rodela, who killed Sire Bizco and defi led his body. As for why the didn't tell the rest—that Rodela was Galan's armiger no more and had gone to stay with Sire Alcoba—that is anyone's guess.

When Ardor's men came they went straight for Galan's tent. It was easy to find, for his banners flew beside it. They carried oil and pitch and torches and went without stealth, for the fighting men were gone to the tourney field and the training grounds. A bagboy belonging to the clan of Growan allowed he'd seen them coming. They came on horseback without haste or concealment, and they never dismounted.

By the time the bagboy gathered his wits and began to shout, others had seen them. Too late, for the deed was already done, it was quickly done, and the men rode off in more haste than they'd come, leaving Consort Vulpeja, their own kinswoman, behind in the burning tent.

I woke to Sunup's screams.

Dulled by sleep and soothe—me, I sat up on my pallet. That was a mistake. The tent was flooded with stinking black smoke, turbulent, hot, full of grit, a substance more like water than air. I feared I'd drown in it. It entered my nose and mouth and I coughed and gagged. My eyes burned and ran with tears. I could see no farther than my own hand, except for bright puddles of flame above me and rivulets of flame on all sides. This was no natural fire. It spread from everywhere at once.

My mind was as thick as the smoke, moiled with terror. I couldn't tell east from west, north from south, or whether the doorway was behind or before me. But Sunup was screaming—I'd never heard such a scream from anyone before, man or beast, yet I knew it was Sunup—and the sound goaded me. It was the one thing I understood. I rolled on my belly and pulled my sheepskin cloak over my head and began to crawl toward her with my nose near the ground, where the air was less foul. Before long her screaming stopped, for the more she cried out, the more smoke she took in. She coughed and she whimpered, and then she was silent. By then I knew where I was. Sunup hadn't left Consort Vulpeja's side. I was crawling away from the door.

No breath to spare for prayers or curses, though I was full of both, all muddled together. Only breath enough to hitch along, elbows and knees, belly scraping the ground. I was afraid to uncover my head. I hid from the fire in the stifling dark under my cloak. As if the flames wouldn't find me if I couldn't see them.

It seemed a long while before I encountered an ankle with my outstretched hand and then an upturned heel. The bones of the ankle were fine as bird bones, which told me nothing, but the heel was rough and hard, and by that I recognized Sunup. By working my way up, I came to her head and found her limp and insensible. I put my hand over her mouth and felt a faint breath.

I uncovered my head and saw that while I had crawled, the fire had outpaced me. Now the tent was lit by a glowering light, revealing a landscape of fire and smoke: torrents of fire flowing above my head and streaming along the walls; roiling smoke pressing downward instead of rising. Everything upside down. A rain of sparks going up. Rags flying around us. A fierce, hot wind stealing the breath from my mouth. The air heavy with ash.

I dreaded to burn. The dogs would have been more merciful.

I moved as quickly as I could but I was hindered by coughing and blinded by smoke and tears. Sunup was under my hand. She'd fallen by the foot of Consort Vulpeja's cot. The concubine was on the bed, but I couldn't see her. Nothing but a smudge of shadow.

I'd have to come back for her.

I took off my cloak. It was splotched with small fires I hadn't felt through the heavy sheepskin, and I smothered them. I crouched and wrapped the cloak around Sunup. Fire was writing its way across the thin white linen of the curtain around Consort Vulpeja's chamber, leaving a black scrawl. I dragged Sunup under the burning tatters, bending low. I held my breath as long as I could, and when I gasped again I was scorched all down my windpipe.

We were in the very maw of Wildfire now, and it roared with tongues of flame. I hadn't truly heard till now that it roared at me. I felt its greed. I'd once presumed to think Ardor had some use for me—this was the use, then: to feed on.

Well, we must be cooked first. This was no time to crawl. I hoisted Sunup in my arms. She was a light but unwieldy burden, her arms and legs and head dangling slackly. When I straightened up I felt heat enough to sear the meat off my bones with me still standing. Even the ground was blazing, for the dry heather in the pallets had kindled.

The tent was ten strides square, no more than ten strides. I could go that far. I blundered toward the door, through the brightness, through the darkness. I found my way by what was underfoot, the brazier, Galan's strongbox, meal sacks, casks. Fire caught at my skirts.

I could have sworn I'd left the door flap tied open. Now it was hanging down in our way and all ablaze.

I went through nevertheless, half—carrying, half—dragging Sunup. The heavy canvas raked over me and set my headcloth, my hair, and the back of my dress afi re. Someone took Sunup from my arms and then seized hold of me and rolled me over the ground to put out the fire.

The man squatted by me. He wore Hazard's red feather in his cap. I sat up and coughed and couldn't stop coughing. I was helpless with it; I thought the bellows of my lungs would turn inside out. The drudge looked worried, but when he saw I'd live, he clapped me on the back and ran off, and I never saw him again to thank him.

I stopped coughing and began to wheeze. Over the roar of the fire, I heard shouts and the frenzied bleating of our milk goat, tethered to a tent stake.

My eyes still smarted and watered ceaselessly. There were drudges, a crowd of men and boys, rushing about to fetch water, but I couldn't see well enough to tell those I knew from strangers. I could make out the tent, what was left of it, and the smear of smoke rising high above it. The canvas was waxed to keep out rain; men threw water on it and the water ran off and fire danced back. There were holes eaten in the roof and walls and nothing but flames visible within.

I had no voice to call for help for Consort Vulpeja. I knew I must get up. But I was as unsteady as an infant who can't find her own feet, and can only get about by crawling. Sunup lay where she'd been dropped, still insensible. I went to her on hands and knees. There were burns on her feet and her cheek. Despite the heat of the fire, despite my cloak, she was shivering. Even so, I needed the cloak and I took it from her, after dragging her farther from the fire.

I found a shallow, muddy puddle and soaked the sheepskin in it, thinking that if it were wet it would shield me better from the flames. Even this little exertion made me gasp, and every gasp seared deep. I could think clearly again and my mind moved apace. I began to reckon what I should have done when I was inside the tent—what I must still do. Yet for all the haste of my thoughts, my limbs were laggard.

I pulled the wet cloak over me and the weight bore me down. I got one foot under me and then another, but couldn't balance without the prop of one hand on the ground. I rubbed my eyes to clear them, and what I saw stole my strength and I fell to my knees again.

The fire was swift and I had been slow, too slow. Our tent ropes had been smeared with pitch. They'd burned like wicks, and now the strands were parting.

The tent lurched like a drunkard. It leaned, it leaned farther and farther, and then it collapsed with a great whomp and an exhalation of hot air and sparks and soot. A shout went up and the men stopped scurrying and stood gawping. A surprised laugh from one, a cheer from a few others: the fire was beaten, stifled when the tent came down.

Then little flames got up and began to dash over the hills and valleys the canvas made over what lay underneath.

I heard Sunup sob and call for Consort Vulpeja.

A voice I recognized shouted nearby, berating the onlookers. It was the Crux's cook. He roared that not a man among them had a feather's weight of sense, and bade them go to the cliff path and form a line to pass buckets upward.

I waved to him, having no voice to call out. His face and tunic were spattered with blood and I thought he had been injured. He came over and helped me stand. When I pulled urgently at his sleeve, he shook his head. He knew already; he'd not forgotten Consort Vulpeja.

Cook followed me around the tent. I pointed to the large hummock over the concubine's cot and he pulled out his long knife and began to cut. He shouted for water and more water, he cursed the men who brought it for being too slow. They emptied their buckets over the fire and steam rose up with the smoke. Cook was hardened to heat after all his years at the hearth fire. He cut through the burning canvas quickly and lifted it away with his bare hands.

She was not on the cot. She must have crawled under it for shelter. She lay faceup on the ground with her hands folded, as she had been taught was proper, and I thought at first she was alive because she wasn't burnt, not even her shift. Except for soot around her nostrils and on her eyelids and cheeks, she was unmarked. But she was dead.

I had saved Sunup instead. Sunup, mudborn.

Men and boys crowded close behind us. Most of them were cooks and kitchenboys and bagboys; any drudge or foot soldier with time to waste was down at the tourney field watching the Blood fight. They had come running from all over the Marchfield when they saw the smoke, for Wildfire was everyone's concern. Wildfire gets hungrier the more it feeds; it would have leapt from tent to tent with the wind and devoured the king's hall if they'd not kept it penned inside Sire Galan's tent. I suppose they'd done well to do that much. For us it was too little.

When they saw Consort Vulpeja, a hush came over them. Soon they'd begin to talk, and the tale would be carried all over the Marchfield. It would find its way home to the king's court, to Galan's keep, to his wife.

I put my sodden cloak over the concubine, leaving her face uncovered. It wasn't fitting they should see her in her shift. When I'd done that, I didn't know what else to do. The ground where I knelt was hot, so I crawled away. I sat by Sire Fanfarron's tent, which was pocked with small holes where sparks had caught before they were doused.

I meant to go back for her. It was Hazard who chose for me, Hazard in every aspect, blind Chance and ruthless Peril and unyielding Fate. If I had touched Consort Vulpeja's foot first, surely I would have saved her. But then Sunup would have died, and I could not regret that she lived.

I regretted everything else. I should have saved them both. I hadn't thought, that was the trouble. I hadn't thought of the hole in the canvas wall beside Consort Vulpeja's cot. I could have widened the opening, gotten us all out. But the wall was a wall of flames—and I had no knife, for I'd taken off my belt with the sheath when I lay down to rest. Why, then, hadn't I picked it up? For now the belt was lost and the knife and my herbs with it. And Consort Vulpeja.

Maybe if I'd gotten out first, I could have found help in time for both of them. If I hadn't crawled … I never thought the fire could move so fast.

I should have cut my way out from inside when I had the chance—but already the wall was blazing, I couldn't get near it. And I had forgotten my knife.

And so on, round and round.

The priests say the dead see more clearly the farther they travel from us in the afterlife, until at last they see more like gods than men. The burden the dead carry on their journey is remorse. Duties left undone, even omissions that went unnoticed in life, often prove the most burdensome, and some deeds that seemed great to the living, for good or ill, turn out to be but a small matter.

Passions do not long survive the body. Only regret. Powerless regret, for shades can't set the balance right or turn aside any harm their past deeds will yet bring to the living. For the first time, I understood what a torment that will be: the heavier the remorse, the longer the journey.

Crux Sun smiled down. I no longer saw anything benign in her smile. Rain and rain and rain, a month of rain, and today, when water from the sky would have been a blessing, she showed us her face.